


Compenetration

by BlueManta



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Warning: fanfiction, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-25
Updated: 2014-05-25
Packaged: 2018-01-26 09:07:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1682774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueManta/pseuds/BlueManta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was the first time after the rescue they had some time to spend alone, it was their leave time and Bucky had something in mind. Steve didn't ask. Right now he was happy to go along with any of his friend's ideas.</p><p>Steve had needed this for so long...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Compenetration

**Author's Note:**

  * For [firstaudrina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/firstaudrina/gifts).



This was the first time after the rescue they had some time to spend alone, it was their leave time and Bucky had something in mind. Steve didn't ask. Right now he was happy to go along with any of his friend's ideas.

Steve, laid in the sidecar to look up at the impressionist heavens, its swirling blues and pinks and golds in streaky clouds, ruminated, earnestly, but he was finding it hard to get from one idea to another. It was easier just to watch the sky hanging over him and feel the cradle-like rocking of the sidecar. He was fascinated in a tipsy way with the stillness of the sky, while the fuzzy dark tops of poplars whizzed by on either side, leaning in and then away, and the intermittent bulks of lorries whipping past and stealing the very air around them.

Eventually the motorcycle twisted round and stopped. Bucky get off and Steve sat up, looking at where they were. It was in a dark cobbled street that was unremarkable but for the bicycles against the wall and three autos straddling the walkway further down. "Come on, Steve." Bucky hung his helmet on one of the driving handles while Steve clambered out and straightened his jacket.

Bucky led the way across the street at an angle, to an unmarked wooden door. He knocked, paused, knocked twice and paused, then knocked three times. The door was cracked open and a man looked out, his face attentively blank. Voices and the quick notes of a ragtime piano came to Steve faintly.

Bucky said something and the man at the door replied, then opened it fully, grinned at them and let them enter.

They came down a half-flight of stairs into what had probably once been a cellar. Flagstones on the floor, brick walls, electric light looking garish and naked as it glared on a dark-wood bar. The piano was at the far end of the room under another light, and there were small cafe-style tables scattered around. Steve looked harder at the slim suited figure at a nearby table, hat tilted forward and seeming to ride too high on the small head, and realised it was a woman he was looking at. They were at an inverts' club.

The piano paused and voices called out, presumably song titles, as the musician talked back and then launched into another tune. Bucky grinned over his shoulder as they both recognised it: "You Made Me Love You."

Bucky led them over to the bar.

The trousered form bent over behind the bar rose up, a dusty bottle in one long-fingered hand, and farther up than Steve had expected. He also hadn't expected the hooked nose, the bright and knowing eyes. "Buona sera, bei signori," said the man.

"Now don't make me look the fool," Bucky said.

"Oh, sorry," the bartender said, blinking. "English, is you?"

"Yes," said Steve.

"Bene, bene," the bartender answered, looking back and forth between them. "What'll you gentlemen have?"

He served them and moved to the other end of the bar in response to a patron's call; then wiped his way back with a pale cloth between his hand and the bar's dark wood.

"You know, this is a club for...folks out of place. Like that child," he pointed with his chin to the crossdressed girl Steve had seen on their way in. "Don't even have a girlfriend far as I know. Just the clothes for her, I guess. And she smokes here—sure she can't at home." He shook his head.

They did go on talking, about the place they were in and the countryside and other peaceful topics. The pianist played a rag, then "Dark Eyes," which made Bucky shake his head and grimace. He didn't like Russian music, Steve knew.

Steve looked around at the piano, half-turning, and Bucky moved to keep the body contact they'd slipped into, almost unconsciously. He was standing with his back to the bar and elbows on it, Steve's arm loosely across his waist and the hand just tucked into his belt. Their shoulders had been touching; now the angle of Bucky's bent arm zigzagged across Steve's chest, and his foot was between Steve's. The warm hip was just at crotch-level, and Steve tightened the grip of his arm involuntarily.

Bucky tilted his head back a little to meet Steve's eyes, smiling. "Maybe we should ask for a dance tune," he said.

"A mazurka?" Steve asked, really meaning, _how long are you going to play with me tonight?_

By Bucky's widening smile, he heard both questions. "A tango," he said, answering both.

Steve bent his head, smelling Bucky's hair, nearly touching it. "There's not enough room here to tango," he murmured. "Besides, you would insist on leading."

"You can't dance, Steve." The voice breathy and beautiful. If Steve didn't pull back now, he didn't know what he might not do under the interested eyes of a bar-full of Italian inverts.

But he just couldn't move away. It was Bucky who took the hand from his waist and turned to face the bar, placing Steve's hand on the wood and covering it with his own.

Spell broke, Steve asked, still sounding winded, "Is there, somewhere we can stay for the night?"

"Indeed," said the bartender's voice. They both looked up, and the bartender was looking back with amusement. "If it's 'commodations y'all are after, I can help. Got a couple rooms above this, rent 'em by the night."

"Do you," said Steve, but he was glad to hear it. And glad to see how quickly Bucky pulled out a handful of liras. Too impatient to haggle. Well, so was Steve.

* * * * *

The room was small and not very furnished, but it had a high enough ceiling that Steve didn't feel like ducking, and a bed with clean sheets, a tin of Vaseline on the washstand, water in the ewer, and towels. A single curtain across the dark square of window. A gas fixture at the door that gave a warm yellow light. Good enough.  
Bucky hung his jacket on a hook and took Steve's to drape it over the top, and then he began to unfasten his collar button. Steve took a step forward and covered Bucky's hands with his own. "Let me." Steve had needed this for so long...

"I think we'd better strip you first," said Bucky.

So they both attacked Steve's buttons, buckle and hooks, fingers tangling and fumbling, impatient. Bucky worked efficiently, without detours for stroking and kissing, and Steve knew he wouldn't be able to do the same. They also folded Steve's clothes neatly on the seat of a little wooden chair.

Then Steve sat on his folded trousers, hands on either side of Bucky's waist, and looked up at the dark downturned eyes. "Let me," he said again, and meant more than just permission to undress his lover.

"Yes."

It was slow, slowly frantic, for every inch Steve uncovered he wanted to touch. He opened the buttons of Bucky's shirt and rested his forehead on the pale lisle of the undershirt. Bucky's chest rose and fell and, before getting the belt unbuckled, Steve pulled the hips into himself and pressed his ear against Bucky just where his ribs ended, below the undershirt buttons, listening to him breathe, to his beating heart and the tiny noises of his stomach. Eyes closed, Steve turned his face completely into Bucky and took a long, sighing breath. Bucky petted his hair, and then bent forward, hips levering back, to kiss Steve's forehead. Steve reached for the waistband of his lover's trousers, undid belt and fly.

As he drew them down, Bucky pulled the undershirt over his head, inside out, and simply dropped it to the floor. It passed Steve's peripheral vision.

He rubbed Bucky's knees, up a little into the legs of his underpants, then down again to the garters holding up his socks. Undid the little clips, unbuckled the garters, took the right-hand one off and then the left. Steve cupped a slender foot in his hand and thought of kissing it. But the logistics defeated him, and he decided to save that gesture for later. In bed.

He rubbed up the outsides of both legs at once, bunching the pants' legs and watching the fly as it bulged and gaped. Bucky was breathing hard now, and quickly, his mouth open, and Steve reached farther up and inward until his fingers found the taut hot length, just brushed his fingertips back and forth while Bucky was swaying with the sensation, leaned forward and fastened his mouth on the skin somewhere near Bucky's navel.

"Agh," said Bucky, holding his lover's head, pressing, "Damn."

For a moment Steve resisted, then let Bucky guide him, rubbed his cheek against lisle and Bucky, let the cock poke and thrust at him, mouthing along its length.

" _Steve_ ," Bucky said, untangling his fingers from Steve's hair and pushing at his own pants, "...forgodssake..."

Steve sucked the cloth and Bucky grabbed his head and pulled him furiously to his feet, shoved him in the direction of the bed and tugged off the offending underwear so fast that Steve was sure he must have hurt himself. "Did you even unbutton them?"

"Get in bed," Bucky growled, and crawled in after him, bumping arm and leg and hip.

"No," said Steve as his lover clambered over him, "let me, let me," and scooped the squirming body into his arms, covered it with his own body, rubbed skin against skin luxuriously. They seldom were able to be naked together, especially where both of them could lie relaxed and comfortable, and though they were hardly relaxed now the bed was level and large enough for all their limbs. Steve kissed collarbone and shoulder, rib and stomach, hipbone and thigh; he stroked everywhere his hands could reach; Bucky swore and called his name and groaned, rocking his hips from side to side, thrashing his head. His hands struck at Steve, grabbed at him, pounded the mattress. Steve spread the legs below him farther apart, farther still, ducked his head until his face was in the bedclothes, nudged back to the testicles, and when he licked them they shrank and wrinkled and Bucky shouted louder, then ejaculated, pumping and gasping and pumping again. Steve raised his head and watched, blinking only as he was sprayed, feeling warm drops on his eyelids and cheeks and forehead.

"Oh," Bucky said. "Oh Steve."

Steve knelt up and wiped his face with both hands, then looked at his smeared palms and licked the right one. It wasn't as erotic that way. He rubbed the rest off into the sheets.

"Your own fault." The voice was still weak. "Get up here...I can't come there."

"You come very well here, thank you," Steve said, and rolled the limp body over.

"Can't get on my knees," Bucky said, muffled in the pillow though he'd turned his face to one side.

"Fine." He straddled the lush hips, not caring particularly that his own cock was throbbing, aching, dripping from time to time. He cupped Bucky's shoulders in his hands, bent forward and kissed the damp nape of the neck, as sweetly fragrant as a baby's; licked the shell and lobe of the ear. Bucky murmured, not really words, and Steve went on making love to the shoulders, the spine, the muscles of his lover's arms and the curve of his back. The swell of the buttocks. The dimples above them, below the spine.

"You're not," said Bucky, spreading his legs.

Steve didn't bother to answer. He knew it was mad: the need he felt to possess every inch of his lover, feel every part of him alive and warm, make pleasure for him with every touch. But madness felt all right, just now. Unless Bucky didn't want it, Steve would taste him everywhere.

Bucky didn't resist. His muscles tightened and relaxed, bunching and softening under Steve's teasing mouth. Steve sucked and licked, rubbed his teeth against the skin, and Bucky groaned again, thrusting into the sheets.

Grabbing the round cheeks, Steve stroked both at once with his thumbs. Soft, velvety, compact, so good in his hands that he repeated the motion, then did it a third time before shifting his hold and slipping his thumbs along the crevasse between. Bucky's knees slid in the sheets, even farther apart.

Then Steve licked the top of the crack. Bucky jolted in the bed. "Ste-eeve," he said, and repeated it as Steve lapped farther. The vowel lengthened, the consonants were less distinct, and it felt as if time were slowing, like a motion picture but with sound as well, as Steve went deeper and Bucky keened and whispered his name.

Only once had Steve even read a description of this act, and it was in an old book, so full of euphemism that he and Bucky had only laughed over it. Imagining it had been repellent. Steve had been sure that one would smell faeces.

And now he could, slightly, clean as Bucky was; and now even that did not matter. Bucky seemed unable to keep still or silent; the skin was fascinatingly soft and wrinkled to the tip of Steve's tongue, and nothing that belonged to his lover could ever repel him. His mouth was watering, insanely hungry for the loss of Bucky's control, the way he began to shout and shake. Steve believed neither of them had ever been so alive.

Bucky somehow got his arms and legs under him and raised himself, almost dislodging Steve, and then Bucky had twisted around and manhandled him onto his back.

"Let—" Steve began again, but Bucky shook his head.

"No," he said, eyes wild, hair every which way in elf-locks, and even when he was not speaking his mouth was ajar, lips wet. "No." He took Steve's mouth in a kiss so fierce that their teeth butted each other, squeaked as they moved. Their lips were pinched, and they tasted a faint tang of blood. Steve rediscovered his cock's urgency, and groaned, trying to rub more effectively against whatever part of Bucky was so warmly and tightly pressed there. Bucky raised himself and Steve groaned again before he felt the grip of Bucky's hand on his cock and the weight back on him.

Now he would have said yes if he could speak, but he couldn't. Bucky eased off, went on kissing but not in that take-no-prisoners way, got softer and shorter and wetter and sweet, so sweet, sucking at Steve's lips as if they were flowers and Bucky a bee. Nectar in Bucky's mouth too. Steve shut his eyes, let his neck relax, tasted Bucky, felt the strong hand stroking, squeezing, milking him, and wanted never to come if that meant this would go on forever.

But of course it would not, and with a strange mixture of satisfaction and grief Steve felt his balls tighten and his erection swell, the rush of orgasm sweeping up his body until he cried out into Bucky's mouth and seemed to fill the narrow space between them with semen.

"Good, good, good," Bucky told him, all but crooning, kissing now with a touch as light as the brush of a feather, all around and down to the neck, burrowing his head in and holding tight with legs as well as arms. Something felt wet there, in the wrong place for Bucky's mouth, and Steve pulled his lover's head up to look. The dark lashes were matted and drenched, and Steve felt his own eyes sting. Cupped the dear long face in his hands.

They just looked. They didn't need vows. Anyway all they could have promised was this raw closeness that they were already sharing.


End file.
